1000+ images about Beautiful Pavlova on Pinterest | Peach melba, Cream and Mini pavlova The pink food colouring takes these beautiful mini pavlovas to the next level in gourmet entertaining! See More The Old Foodie: January 2007 The Old Foodie Today, January 31st … [update: February 7th, see the entry for 1933] The Russian ballerina Anna Pavlova was born on this day in 1885, so there is no difficulty guessing our topic today – ‘the pavlova, the sweet dessert’. There has been a longstanding battle between Australia and New Zealand as to who 'invented' the pavlova, with tempers getting quite nasty at times. This is my contribution to the war.

For those of you who need the clarification, a pavlova as defined by the OED is “a dessert consisting of a soft-centred meringue base or shell filled with whipped cream and fruit.” I would like it put on notice here that the OED, which should be absolutely non-partisan, has clearly allied itself with the “soft-centred like marshmallow” school of thought, in complete disregard for the very vocal opposition school that maintains a pavlova should be thoroughly dried and crisp throughout. We have established then, that a pavlova is a form of meringue. Neither Australia nor New Zealand invented the meringue, because the meringue was invented before they were. As for meringue, it was not, repeat NOT ‘invented in 1720 by a Swiss pastry-cook called Gasparini, who practised his art in Mehrinyghen [hence ‘meringue’], a small town in the State of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha.’ Even the venerable Larousse perpetrates this myth, in complete disregard for the fact that confections made from sweetened, stiffly-beaten egg whites appear in cookbooks printed well before that date.

The earliest I can find appears in the recipe collection of Lady Elinor Fettiplace, which is dated 1604, which she calls White Bisket Bread. To make White Bisket Bread. Take a pound & a half of sugar, & an handful of fine white flower [flour], the whites of twelve eggs, beaten verie finelie, and a little annisseed brused, temper all this together, till it be no thicker than pap, make coffins with paper, and put it into the oven, after the manchet [bread] is drawn. Note: this is clearly what we would call ‘meringue’, but Lady Elinor does not use the name. The first use that I am aware of (and I stand willing to be corrected) is in the cookbook of François Massialot, the first chef of Louis XIV (1638 - 1715). His book was published in 1692, and contained a chapter on “Meringues and Macaroons”. This is one of the recipes from the English translation of 1702. Dry Meringues.

Having caus’d the Whites of four new-laid Eggs to be whipt, as before, till they rise up to a Snow, let four Spoonfuls of very dry Powder-sugar be put into it, and well-temper’d with a Spoon: Then let all be set over a gentle Fire, to be dried a little at two several times, and add some Pistachoes, that are pounded and dried a little in the Stove. Afterwards, they are to be dress’d as other, and bak’d in the Oven somewhat leisurely, with a little Fire underneath, and more on the top; When they are sufficiently done, and very dry, let them be taken out, and cut off with a Knife: Lastly, as soon as they are somewhat cold, let them be laid upon Paper, and set into the Stove to be kept dry. So, should M.Massialot get the credit for ‘inventing’ the meringue, as the evidence is that he used the name first? Or, until an earlier manuscript turns up, should it go to Lady Elinor, on the principle that the concept is the thing, not the name?

Australia and New Zealand, we have established, did not invent the bisket-bread/meringue style confection itself. Did either of them actually invent the particular iteration which both now call the pavlova, or did one of them steal the name an apply it to a similar, but quintessentially different variation? Here we have the nub of the dispute. It is all in the name. It is not my job here to take sides (although as I have pointed out elsewhere, NZ is the country that re-named the Chinese Gooseberry the Kiwi Fruit, in what was clearly an attempt to give it origin status), so I hereby give you the known facts/factoids in chronological order for you to make up your own minds. 1926: A cookbook printed in NZ called Cookery for New Zealand, by E. Futter contained a recipe ‘Meringue with Fruit Filling’. It was not, however, called Pavlova. 1927: The OED cites the first use of the word ‘pavlova’ in ‘Davis Dainty Dishes’, published by Davis Gelatine in NZ.

It was ‘composed of coloured layers of jelly made in a mould resembling a ballerina's tutu’. Pavlova, as coloured jelly – I don’t think so! 1927: A group of Congregational Church ladies produced a cookbook called Terrace Tested Recipes, in Wellington NZ in 1927. One recipe was for ‘Meringue Cake’, which was made in two tins, the resulting two cakes being sandwiched together with cream and fruit, or serves as two cakes. Not called pavlova. Structure similar? Not the two layer one, certainly. 1929: Yet another NZ cookbook, Mrs. McKay’s Practical Home Cookery, had a recipe for ‘Pavlova Cakes’, the plural representing the three dozen little confections made from the mixture. This is hardly the same thing as a pavlova with the traditional filling/topping, now is it?

1933: Bron at Bron Marshall Classic & Creative Cuisine sends this correction on Feb 7th: The recipe was submitted by a Laurina Stevens for the Rangiora Mother’s Union Cookery Book, it was called “Pavlova” - the correct name, the recipe was for one large cake and contained the correct ingredients, egg white, sugar, cornflour, and vinegar, and it had the correct method for cooking. This has been proven thanks to the research of Professor Helen Leach, of the University of Otago’s anthropology department. Prof Leach also uncovered a 1929 pavlova recipe in a New Zealand rural magazine which had the correct ingredients and correct method of cooking, however it was unfortunately published under a pseudonym.

1935: The family of Herbert Sachse of the Hotel Esplanade in Perth, Western Australia have maintained a vigorous claim that he invented the dish to be served at afternoon tea, and commented (or someone did) that “It is as light as Pavlova”, and hence the name Sachse claimed in a magazine interview that he ‘improved’ a recipe for Meringue Cake he found in the Women’s Mirror Magazine on April 2, 1935 (which had been submitted by a NZ resident. I guess the only way this dispute will get resolved is if we can come to a consensus as to what defines a pavlova, as distinct from a meringue or a meringue cake or a pavlova cake(s). I reckon the passionfruit is crucial. Tomorrow’s Story … A Previous Story for this Day … We had a story about monkeys and bananas on this day last year. Quotation for the Day … Once in a young lifetime one should be allowed to have as much sweetness as one can possibly want and hold. Judith Olney. Posted by Wine with Wisdom.

Today, January 29th … Herman Melville wrote to his great friend Nathaniel Hawthorne on this day, urging him to visit, and tempting him with a promise of food and wine and conversation. “ … Fear not that you will cause the slightest trouble to us. Your bed is already made, & the wood marked for your fire. But a moment ago, I looked into the eyes of two fowls, whose tail feathers have been notched, as destined victims for the table. I keep the word "Welcome" all the time in my mouth, so as to be ready on the instant when you cross the threshold. … Mark - There is some excellent Montado Sherry awaiting you & some most potent port. We will have mulled wine with wisdom, & buttered toast with story-telling & crack jokes & bottles from morning till night”. How could anyone refuse an invitation for “mulled wine with wisdom, & buttered toast with story-telling” from such a brilliant writer? Especially another brilliant writer? What stories did they tell over their buttered toast? Did they exchange plot details from the books they were working on?

Melville must have been close to finishing Moby Dick, and Hawthorne The House of the Seven Gables at that time as both books were published later the same year. Whatever they discussed, the mulled wine would certainly have been welcome, as the temperature at Melville’s farm near Pittsfield, Massachusetts would have been below freezing. What did they mull over, over this mulled wine? And what a lovely confluence of words that is! To mull is “to consider, ponder upon”. Mulled wine is wine “made into a hot drink with added sugar, spices, fruit, etc., and formerly sometimes thickened with beaten egg yolk” I did hope to find a clever connection between the various uses of ‘mull’, but a prolonged foray into the OED turned it up 11 times as an adjective, and 5 as a verb (with 5 more in the form of ‘mulled’), which was far too many for this non-linguist to unravel. The various entries were also prefaced with OED-speak such as “the origin is uncertain”, “various theories have been advanced as to the origin of this word”, and “the development of the other senses is unclear”.

So I gave up. A selection of the definitions does seem to be relevant however. ‘To mull’ also means ‘to grind to a powder’ (the spices) and ‘to become wet or liquid’ (mixing the spices with the wine), and ‘to warm’, all of which fit the mulled wine concept, and are pretty good metaphors for the mental process too. There is also the possible association with the Latin word ‘mulsus’, meaning mixed with honey, which would fit with the sweetening of the drink. It might seem likely that the name of the Anglo-Indian 'Mulligatawny Soup' would reference the grinding of the spices, but the word has a completely different (and thankfully quite unequivocal etymology), which is satisfyingly descriptive. ‘Mulligatawny” comes from a Tamil word meaning “pepper water”. There is no evidence that I am aware of that either of our two literary gentlemen ever ate it, but it would have been entirely appropriate for the mid-winter weather in Massachusetts.

I give you a recipe for the soup from the same era, from Cookery, rational, practical and economical, treated in connexion with the chemistry of food by Hartelaw Reid (1853) Mulligatawny Soup. Cut the meat of three pounds of a breast of veal into small pieces, and simmer the trimmings, gristles, and bones, along with a knuckle of veal broken in pieces, in about three quarts of water, until these are converted into a good strong stock. Fry (sauter) the pieces of meat in butter, in a deep stewpan, along with some sliced onion, and a slice of lean ham. When slightly browned, add two tablespoonfuls of flour, mix well, and pour over them the stock previously strained. Allow this to simmer gently for nearly an hour, skimming off the fat as it rises. Then add two or three dessert-spoonfuls of curry powder, season with salt and cayenne to taste, and continue the simmering until the veal is thoroughly cooked. Before serving, remove the ham.

Carrot and turnip may be used in this soup if desired, being sliced and sautéed along with the meat and onion; apples are also sometimes employed in this way. The remains of cooked fowls or rabbits, cut into pieces of the proper size, may be warmed up in this soup and served along with, or instead of, the veal. Tomorrow’s Story … A dish for the Empress. Quotation for the Day … It is true that taste can be educated. It is also true that taste can be perverted... If any man gives you a wine you can't bear, don't say it is beastly... But don't say you like it. You are endangering your soul and the use of wine as well... Seek out some other wine good to your taste. Hillaire Belloc. Posted by A Saintly Weed. Today, January 19th … After the previous two days of heavy-duty menus, it is a relief to return to some delicate plant cookery. The mediaeval monks’ saintly calendar of flowers comes to our rescue today. The plant of the day, which is dedicated to St Martha, is the White Dead Nettle.

The stinging nettle is a weed, an invalid food, or a spinach substitute, depending on your point of view, state of health, and finances. Its medicinal use goes back many centuries, and we have already met the hymnist John Byrom , who used ‘nettle broth’ for some unspecified malady in 1728. Nicolas Culpeper in his famous herbal the English Physitian (1652) gave a list of medicinal actions of the nettle, noting among other things that would: “ … open the Pipes and passages of the Lungs … and helpeth to expectorate tough Flegm, as also to raise the impostumated Pleuresie, and spend it by spitting; .. killeth the Worms in Children, easeth pains in the sides, and dissolveth the windiness in the Spleen, as also in the Body, … Remedy against the stinging of Venemous Creatures, the biting of Mad Dogs … ” Culpeper’s contemporary, Samuel Pepys, recorded taking nettle porridge on a number of occasions.

We know he suffered from ‘the stone’, so perhaps the nettles helped, for Culpeper also said of it that “the Seed provoketh Urine, and expelleth the Gravel and Stone in the Reins or Bladder.” Aside from its medical use, the nettle is a most useful culinary plant. It can be used to make tea or beer, depending on inclinations and brewing skill, but it is less well known that it can be used as a sort of vegetable rennet (vegetarians take note). Cassells’ Dictionary of Cookery (1870’s) says: Nettle, Rennet of. In the Western Isles of Scotland a rennet is prepared by adding a quart of salt to three pints of a strong decoction of nettles, a table-spoonful of which is said to be sufficient to coagulate a bowl of milk. The most usual use of course is as a pot herb.

Given that the usual consumers of the nettle are the peasants and the poor, it is not surprising that there are almost no recipes for it in cookbooks – if one could afford to buy a cookbook, and had an education that enabled one to read it, presumably one would not be eating wayside weeds. Alexis Soyer, the most famous chef of the Victorian era did however include instructions for cooking nettles it in his Shilling Cookery for the People, published in 1854. He did not have a recipe for them in The Modern Housewife (1853), which was clearly written for a better class of reader. Here is the recipe from Soyer’s book, whose full title is: Shilling Cookery for the People: embracing An Entirely New System of Plain Cookery and Domestic Economy (1854). He addresses the recipes in the book to ‘Eloise’. “I herewith send you the receipts I promised you on Nettles which I tried while in Norfolk” Nettles.

Wash them well, drain, put them into plenty of boiling water with a little salt, boil for twenty minutes, or a little longer, drain them, put them on a board and chop them up, and either serve plain, or put them in the pan with a little salt, pepper, and a bit of butter, or a little fat and gravy from a roast; or add to a pound two teaspoonfuls of flour, a gill of skim milk, a teaspoonful of sugar, and serve with or without poached eggs. This extraordinary spring production, of which few know the value, is at once pleasing to the sight, easy of digestion, and at a time of the year when greens are not to be obtained, invaluable as a purifier of the blood; the only fault is, as I have told you above, Eloise, they are to be had for nothing; it is a pity children are not employed to pick them, and sell them in market towns. Monday’s Story … The Death of a Queen. A Previous Story for this Day … A story about the avocado, which grows on 'the Testicle Tree' . On this Topic … An Extraordinary Banquet.

Today, January 18th … The legendary chef Antonin Carême (1784-1833) is generally acknowledged as the founder of classic French cookery. During his own lifetime, he was styled The Cook of Kings and the King of Cooks, and for about two years one of his royal masters was the future King George IV, the gluttonous, spendthrift Francophile - George, Prince of Wales, acting as Regent on behalf of his father, the poor mad George III. Carême did not stay long in the Prince’s kitchens, for a variety of reasons, but while he was in the Regent’s employ, he engineered one of the most elaborate and extravagant banquets ever held. It all happened on this day in 1817, at the ‘Brighton Pavilion’ – the Regent’s new, extravagant and elaborate seaside residence. The occasion was the state visit of Grand Duke Nicholas of Russia. This dinner was not simply a meal offered to a hungry overseas guest, this was not simply Dinner, this was Theatre (or Propaganda if you will) - Theatre with a cast of 120 dishes. Here is the playbill. SOUPES.

Risotto à la Milanaise. Today, January 16th … There is a charming myth that the classical northern Italian dish Risotto à la Milanaise was created in 1574 by the artist responsible for the stained glass windows in the Cathedral of Milan when he added some saffron (supposedly used for colouring his paints) to a dish of rice at his daughters wedding. It is a legend that begs many questions, not the least of which is what was an elite artist doing in the kitchen at that time, paint colourings in hand. The legend goes on to say that the guests pronounced the dish “risus optimus”, or “excellent rice”, which became eventually became “risotto”. The OED does not give this explanation, but does concede that the name is of Italian origin, and then rather prosaically describes the dish as “A stew or broth made with rice, chicken, onions, butter, etc.” The crucial “etcetera” that makes basic risotto into Risotto à la Milanaise, is, of course - saffron. So, can we get any closer to the real origins of this dish?

What we do know is that a dish of “Sicilian style rice” was served on this day in 1543 at a banquet organised by Cristoforo da Messisbugo, a steward of the Este family in Ferrara. The dish allegedly contained egg yolks, grated cheese, pepper, saffron and sugar. It is certain that Sicily was under Moorish influence for centuries, and saffron originated in the Middle East - probably in ancient Sumeria, and is a feature of Sicilian dishes, so the explanation so far sounds reasonable. We also believe that the Moors also took rice to Europe, and were growing it in Spain in the 8th or 9th century, and that it was being produced in the Lombardy plain by the end of the 15th century, which also fits our story. Dishes are rarely, if ever “invented” – they evolve and develop over time, and one day might be given a special name, along with which comes the belief that it is newly invented. In reality, rice and saffron were partners at least two centuries before our mid-sixteenth century banquet.

It is possible that they were partners in the 8th or 9th century, but no cookbooks (if indeed there were any) survive from that time. I give you recipes for fourteenth and fifteenth century risotto-like dishes containing saffron. From France, from the manuscript known as the Viander de Taillevent , written in about 1375, and translated by James Prescott: Decorated rice for a meat day. Pick over the rice, wash it very well in hot water, dry it near the fire, and cook it in simmering cow's milk. Crush some saffron (for reddening it), steep it in your milk, and add stock from the pot. From England, from the manuscript known as the Form of Cury , written in about 1395: Ryse of Flesh. Take Ryse and waishe hem clene. and do hem in erthen pot with gode broth and lat hem seethe wel. afterward take Almaund mylke and do therto. and colour it with safroun an salt, an messe forth.

From late 15thC Italy, from the cookbook of Maestro Martino, as translated by Jeremy Parzen in The Art of Cooking: the first modern cookery book; edited by Luigi Ballerini. Martino gives it as a variation of a recipe for Farro (or emmer, an ancient variety of wheat). Farro with Capon Broth or Other Meat Broth. To make ten servings: first of all, clean and wash the farro well, and cook in good capon broth or fatty pullet broth, and let it simmer for a long while. When done cooking, add some good spices; and take three egg yolks and a bit of cold farro, and mix together. Then drop into the farro, and make yellow with some saffron. Rice with Meat Broth. Prepare as for farro broth. But many do not like eggs with their rice, so you should leave it up to your master’s tastes. And for a named version of the dish of the day (although not necessarily the first), we jump to the mid-nineteenth century, to Eliza Acton’s version in Modern Cookery for Private Families (1845).

Risotto a la Milanaise Slice a large onion very thin, and divide it into shreds; then fry it slowly until it is equally but not too deeply browned; take it out and strain the butter, and fry in it about three ounces of rice for every person who is to partake of it. As the grain easily burns, it should be put into the butter when it begins to simmer, and be very gently coloured to a bright yellow tint over a slow fire. Add to it some good boiling broth lightly tinged with saffron, and stew it softly in a copper pan for fifteen or twenty minutes. Stir to it two or three ounces of butter mixed with a small portion of flour, a moderate seasoning of pepper or cayenne, and as much grated Parmesan cheese as will flavour it thoroughly. Boil the whole gently for ten minutes, and serve it very hot, at the commencement of a dinner as a potage. Obs.- The reader should bear in mind what we have so often repeated in this volume, that rice should always be perfectly cooked, and that it will not become tender with less than three times its bulk of liquid.

Tomorrow’s Story … A Previous Story for this Day … The ancient Roman festival of Concordia was our story on this day in 2006. Quotation for the Day … Rice is a beautiful food. It is beautiful when it grows, precision rows of sparkling green stalks shooting up to reach the hot summer sun. It is beautiful when harvested, autumn gold sheaves piled on diked, patchwork paddies. It is beautiful when, once threshed, it enters granary bins like a (flood) of tiny seed-pearls. It is beautiful when cooked by a practiced hand, pure white and sweetly fragrant.Shizuo Tsuji Posted by Victory Sausages.

Today, January 12th … On this day in 1943 in the USA, an official of the Meats Division of the Office of Price Administration announced that for the duration of the war, frankfurters (or ‘hot dogs’) would be replaced with ‘Victory Sausages’, and that a proportion of the meat of the said sausages would itself be replaced with ‘an unspecified amount of soybean meal or some other substitute.’ The ostensible justification for the enforcement of ‘an arbitrary sausage formula’ was the shortage of real meat, but surely this could have been carried out without a name change for the product? Consumers have always assumed that the contents of a sausage are arbitrary, have they not? It was clearly a propaganda opportunity too good to miss – a simple name change to demonstrate anti-German sentiment, an idea resurrected from the previous war when ‘sauerkraut’ became ‘Liberty Cabbage’, and resurrected again when ‘French Fries’ briefly became ‘Freedom Fries’ (due to anti-French sentiment on the part of US soldiers in Iraq).

Propaganda aside, the government assured the populace that the sausage formula might be arbitrary, ‘but it would meet the standards of wholesome nutrition regardless of how much substitute matter it contained.’ Soybeans – ‘the vegetable meat’ - got a large amount of their own propaganda during this time. Numerous commercial products based on soy meal with names only marketing gurus could love came onto the market. One was called Soysage, and consisted of meal made from soy, peanuts, and cottonseed, augmented with wheat bran and wheat germ and flavoured ‘discreetly’ with dehydrated onion and spices.

A food writer in 1943 in the New York Times waxed as lyrical as she could on its virtues, informing her readers that ‘as might be expected from its composition, Soysage is to be employed as a meat substitute.’ The package directions, she said ‘say to blend a cup of it with half a cup of water and form the mixture into patties or “sausages”, brown in a skillet, add more water and continue cooking for about eight minutes until the moisture is absorbed.’ The good folk in the New York Times kitchen felt the necessity to value-add to this recipe, and recommended adding a grated raw carrot, a grated onion, and a pinch of sage to the mixture, and after initial browning, to transfer them to the oven to finish cooking, and then serve them with ‘an appetizing tomato or parsley sauce.’ The ‘vegetable meat’ was also heavily promoted as a grain substitute, and the recipes supplied by various authorities for soymeal in this role sound rather more palatable than those for it as a meat substitute. Here is another New York Times recipe, also from 1943. Soybean Bread.

Six cups sifted enriched flour, one cake yeast, three and a half tablespoons dry skim milk, two cups water, three teaspoons salt, two and a half tablespoons sugar, nine tablespoons high fat soybean flour and one and a half tablespoons shortening. Two cups of fluid milk may be used in place of the dry skim milk and water. Monday’s Story … Too much Molasses. A Previous Story for this Day … James Boswell used food to assist his amorous endeavours in 1763, in a story called ‘ Food for Perfect Felicity’ . On this Topic … Official First World War recipes for meatless dinners made with beans, were in THIS STORY. Quotation for the Day … Hardy’s Ale. Today, January 11th… The novelist Thomas Hardy died on this day in 1928, and forty years later a commemorative ale was released in his honour in his home county of Dorset. This is a very special ale. It is matured in sherry casks for nine months, bottle fermented in individually numbered bottles, designed to be laid down for 5-25 years, and - at 12.5% ABV - decidedly not for wimps.

The ale was inspired by a passage in Hardy’s novel “The Trumpet Major”. The action of the novel occurs in the fictional county of Wessex (which is certainly Dorset), and Hardy describes the local beer as: “……of the most beautiful colour that the eye of an artist in beer could desire; full in body, yet brisk as a volcano; piquant, yet without twang; luminous as an autumn sunset; free from streakiness of taste; but, finally, rather heady. The masses worshipped it, the minor gentry loved it more than wine, and by the most illustrious country families, it was not despised." There were some anxious moments for beer aficionados around the world when the Eldridge-Pope brewery was sold in 1997 and it looked like the beer would not survive. There was no 2000 vintage, but happily common (and commercial, it seems) sense has returned, and the beer is once again available. A recipe for the ale is clearly out of the question, and a recipe using it as an ingredient would clearly be sacrilege.

Luckily, Dorset is also famous for its apples, and a recent competition was held to determine what would be the signature dish of the county. The local Dorset Apple Cake won, and fine recipes for it can be found on the sites belonging to my fellow-bloggers, Andrew at Spittoon Extra , and Anna at Baking for Britain. My offering to you is a mid-Victorian apple cake from Eliza Acton’s Modern Cookery (1845), and leave it to you to decide if it is actually cake, or tart, or pie. Apple Cake, or German Tart. Work together with the fingers ten ounces of butter and a pound of flour, until they resemble fine crumbs of bread; throw in a small pinch of salt, and make them into a firm smooth paste with the yolks of two eggs and a spoonful or two of water.

Butter thickly a plain cake tin, or pie mould; roll out the paste thin, place the mould upon it, trim a bit to its exact size, cover the bottom of the mould with this, then cut a band the height of the sides, and press it smoothly round them, joining the edge, which must be moistened with egg or water, to the bottom crust, and fasten upon them to prevent their separation, a narrow and thin band of paste, also moistened. Next, fill the mould nearly from the brim with the following marmalade, which must be quite cold when it is put in. Boil together, over a gentle fire at first, but more quickly afterwards, three pounds of good apples with fourteen ounces of pounded sugar, or of the finest Lisbon, the strained juice of a large lemon, three ounces of fresh butter, and a teaspoonful of pounded cinnamon, or the lightly grated rind of a couple of lemons. When the whole is perfectly smooth and dry, turn it into a pan to cool, and let it be quite cold before it is put into the paste. In early autumn, a larger proportion of sugar may be required, but this can be regulated by the taste.

When the mould is filled, roll out the cover, lay it carefully over the marmalade that it may not touch it, and when the cake is securely closed, trim off the superfluous paste, add a little pounded sugar to the parings, spread them out very thin, and cut them into leaves to ornament the top of the cake, round which they may be placed as a sort of wreath*. Bake it for an hour in a moderately brisk oven. Take it from the mould, and should the sides be not sufficiently coloured put it back for a few minutes into the oven upon a baking tin. Lay a paper over the top, when it is of a fine light brown, to prevent its being too deeply coloured. This cake should be served hot. Paste: flour, 1 lb.; butter, 10 oz.; yolks of eggs, 2; little water. Marmalade: apples, 3 lbs.; sugar, 14 oz. (more if needed); juice of lemon, 1; rinds of lemons, 2; butter, 3 oz.: baked, 1 hour.

*Or, instead of these, fasten on it with a little white of egg, after it is taken from the oven, some ready-baked leaves of almond-paste, either plain or coloured. Tomorrow’s Story … A Previous Story for this Day … The story on this day last year featured the explorer David Livingstone. Quotation for the Day … I have fed purely upon ale; I have eat my ale, drank my ale, and I always sleep upon ale. George Farquhar, Irish dramatist (1678-1707?) Posted by Dumplings for Eccentrics. Today, January 10th … It is universally acknowledged that the British have more eccentrics per capita than any other nation on earth. A superb British example of Extreme Eccentricity was born on this day in 1716, to die wealthy but alone and miserable a long, cold, hungry 78 years later. That person was the most miserly of a famous family of rich misers, a man called Daniel Dancer. In spite of his fun-sounding name, he lived the life of a recluse, wore rags until they fell off him and slept on a bed of sacks and straw.

He ate a single meal a day of a bit of meat and a single dumpling – apart from the glorious brief two weeks when he ate mutton pies made from the decomposing flesh of a dead sheep which he happened upon and did not want to waste. A little embroidery rarely hurts what is already an apocryphal story, and one version of this tale says that rather than waste fuel he heated his dinner by putting it between two plates and sitting on it. The OED defines a dumpling as “A kind of pudding consisting of a mass of paste or dough, more or less globular in form, either plain and boiled, or inclosing fruit and boiled or baked.” In other words, they are the plainest of plain food, their sole purpose being to take away hunger as cheaply as possible. Daniel came from Harrow in Middlesex, and Norfolk is the English county most proud of its dumplings, but in reality - a dumpling is a dumpling whichever county it hales from.

The OED definition is almost a recipe, so here, in Daniel’s honour, I give you a couple of another alternatives suitable for “poor people”, from William Ellis, a Hereford farmer who lived at the same time as Dancer and wrote a manual of domestic and farm management in 1750. How Water Pancakes are made by poor People. This pancake is made by many poor, day-labouring mens wives, who when they cannot afford to make better, make this; by stirring wheat flower with water instead of milk, for if they can get milk, they generally think it put to a better use when they make milk porridge of it for their family. The flower and water being stirred into a batter consistence, with a sprinkling of salt and powder'd ginger, they fry the pancakes in lard, or other fat, and without any sugar they and their family make a good meal of them. How a poor Woman makes palatable Mince-Pyes of stinking Meat.

This is a poor industrious woman that rents a little tenement by me of twenty shillings a year, who for the sake of her poverty is every week relieved, with many others, by the most noble lord of Gaddesden Manour; who killing a bullock almost every week for his very large family, he has the offald meat dressed, and is so good as to have it given away to the poorest people in the neighbourhood. But it sometimes happens, through the negligence of careless servants, that this charitable meat is apt to stink in hot weather, for want of its due cleaning, boiling, and laying it in a cool place: However, the poor are very glad of this dole, as it does their families considerable service. And to recover such tainted meat, this woman, after boiling and cleansing it well, chops and minces it very small, and when mixed with some pepper, salt, chop'd sage, thyme and onion, she bakes it: This for a savoury pye. At another time she makes a sweet pye of this flesh, by mixing a few currants and plumbs with it. But in either form the taint is so lessened that it is hardly to be perceived.

Tomorrow’s Story … Hardy’s Ale. A Previous Story for this Day … Getting the Sauce on Vegetables , a story about the complexities of EU regulations, was the story for this day last year. Quotation for the Day … The fricassee with dumplings is made by a Mrs Miller whose husband has left her four times on account of her disposition and returned four times on account of her cooking and is still there. Rex Stout (1886-1975), creator of the fat detective, Nero Wolfe. Posted by Asparagus and Age. Today, January 9th … The death on this day in 1757 of the brilliant French mathematician Bernard le Bouyer de Fontenelle seems a strange start to a food story, but there are two very good reasons for our attention. The first reason is that he died a few weeks short of his hundredth birthday, proving that his well-known gourmandism did not damage his life-span at all, which is enormously reassuring for those of us who love good food, and occasionally fear that we will pay the ultimate early price for our obsession.

The second reason is that he is the subject of a particularly good food story about asparagus, and I now have an excuse to tell it. The story says that one day his friend and colleague the Abbé Terrasson (who was also known to be fond of his food) arrived unexpectedly just as Fontenelle was eagerly awaiting a dish of asparagus which he particularly loved, especially dressed with oil. The Abbé however, preferred his asparagus with butter, so the dutiful host ordered his cook to prepare half the dish with oil, and half with butter. Suddenly, before the dish was served, the Abbé fell down dead with apoplexy, whereupon Fontenelle instantly rushed into the kitchen, calling out to his cook “The whole with oil! The whole with oil, as at first!” The story gives both support and rebuttal to another of Fontenelle’s traits.

It was said of him that he was completely lacking in emotion, that he had never truly laughed or cried, that he believed ‘It is the passions that do and undo everything.’ Naturally, I give you a classical French recipe for asparagus today, taken from Alexandre Dumas père’s posthumously published labour of love, his Grand Dictionnaire de Cuisine (1870), as translated by Alan and Jane Davidson in Dumas on Food. Asperges à la Pompadour. M. de Jarente, Minister of state when Madame de Pompadour was in favour, left the following prescription to our celebrated gourmand Grimod de la Reynière, a nephew worthy of his uncle. ‘Choose three bunches of the most beautiful asparagus from large young Dutch plants, that is to say white ones with purple tips. Trim them, wash and cook them in the ordinary way, that is to say by plunging them in boiling water. Slice them afterwards by cutting them on the bias near the tip,into pieces the length of the little finger. Use only the best parts, setting aside the rest of the stems. Put the chosen pieces in a hot napkin so as to drain them and keep them hot while you prepare your sauce.

‘Empty a medium-size pot of butter from Vanvre or Prévalais and put the contents in spoonfuls in a silver dish. Add a few grains of salt, a good pinch of powdered mace and a generous spoonful of pure wheat flour; and in addition the yolks of two fresh eggs diluted with four spoonfuls of the juice of sour Muscat grapes. Cook this sauce in a double boiler; do not allow it to thicken excessively and thus become too heavy. Put your sliced pieces of asparagus in the sauce, and serve it all in a covered casserole as an extra, so that this excellent course does not languish on the table and can be appreciated at the height of its perfection.’ Tomorrow’s Story … Cocoa in the Country. Today, January 8th … The very first issue of Country Life, that most British of British magazines was launched on this day in 1897. It seems that every country sees its rural life as its real life, its essence, and perhaps it is – even if hardly anyone lives it any more.

Country Life is now well-known for its cover pictures of aristocratic homes or aristocratic ‘girls in pearls’, but the first issue (which cost sixpence) had several display advertisements, including one for Cadbury’s Cocoa. The history of chocolate contains every plot device known to fiction-writers – almost as many as does the history of coffee, and too many for one day. We will save the botanical, linguistic, economic, political, imperial, medicinal, mythological and scientific stories for other times, and today enjoy the religious experience of chocolate (as well as the rural), for a reason which will become clear. Chocolate originated in Central America, and our words ‘chocolate’ and ‘cacao’ have their origins in the languages of the ancient people of that region, for whom it certainly played spiritual and celebratory role. Eventually, thanks to the Spanish invasion/colonisation of the region, cacao beans made their way to Europe. The first ‘improvement’ made by the Europeans to the spicy, sometimes bitter beverage was the addition of sugar, and the credit for this idea is occasionally attributed to the Franciscan Bishop of Mexico, Juan de Zumarrogo, himself.

The rich, sweet beverage became rapidly popular, and equally rapidly feared by the inevitable small number of ascetics, puritans, purists and kill-joys amongst the clergy. In fact, it spurred a vigorous debate within the Catholic Church, mainly on the issue of whether (as it was so rich and sustaining) it should be considered a beverage or a food, and therefore whether it was acceptable when fasting. A secondary issue was whether of not it incited lust (see the quotation below) - clearly also a topic of great concern to an institution that maintained celibate priests but wanted its flock to go forth and multiply (under the correct set of conditions of course). Popes between Gregory XIII (1572-85) and Benedict XIV (1740-58) and many lesser clerics made edicts and pronouncements on the sanctity or otherwise of chocolate, but ultimately the Church lost the battle and gave up. The story of Popes and chocolate was still not quite over however, and rumour at the time had it that the death of Clement XIV in 1774 was facilitated by poisoned chocolate given by Jesuits (who have a long involvement in its history), who he had tried to suppress.

The religious connection comes full circle in our story today, as the other very useful thing about chocolate (the drink) is that it is universally liked, but not alcoholic. Developments in the chocolate industry went on apace in England in the nineteenth century thanks to two Quaker (and therefore temperance) families – the Cadburys and the Frys, who need no introduction. As to the rural aspect to today’s story, it comes in the form of today’s recipe. From The Times in 1942, a wartime recipe for ersatz chocolate (the confection, not the drink) - very welcome during a time of sugar and sweets rationing. Honey Chocolate. Private bee-keepers may be glad of the following recipe for home-made honey chocolate: - ¼ lb honey, ¼ lb sugar, three tablespoonsful cocoa, ½ lb chopped home-grown nuts (hazel, cob, walnut, &c.), three tablespoonsful stale plain cake crumbs. Put the honey and sugar in a saucepan over very low heat and allow the sugar to dissolve. Boil up, stirring in the cake crumbs and cocoa, beating until smooth, add the chopped nuts, and mix well.

Spread on greased flat tin, leave to dry, cut into squares. Tomorrow’s Story … Asparagus and Age. Quotation for the Day … The confection made of Cacao called Chocolate or Chocoletto which may be had in diverse places in London, at reasonable rates, is of wonderful efficacy for the procreation of children : for it not only vehemently incites to Venus, but causes conception in women . . . and besides that it preserves health, for it makes such as take it often to become fat and corpulent, fair and amiable. William Coles, Adam in Eden (1657) Posted by

Question: Which meringue dessert, decorated with whipped cream and fresh fruit, originated in Australia and New Zealand, and was named after a famous early 20th century Russian ballet dancer?
Answer: PAVLOVA